Miracle On Baker Street
by Gameson221b
Summary: Just a simple Christmas story filled with unexpected love.


**Author's Note:**

I hadn't planned a Christmas story, but this little one wouldn't be ignored. It comes with a wish for the goodwill of the season and peace and love throughout the new year to all who love Sherlock and John, and Ben and Martin and the "Sherlock family."

There is an asterisk within. When you arrive there, pause a moment and recall the scene from "The Richenbach Fall" in which DI Lestrade utters his comment regarding Sherlock's diplomacy. John leans closer to Sherlock, whispering, "sarcasm," to which Sherlock replies "Yes." Remember the tone he used to deliver that one word? At the asterisk, insert Ben's beautiful baritone.

Don't own, just adore.

* * *

><p>The turn of the lock interrupted the deep silence, but it wasn't Mrs. Hudson. Their dear landlady-not their housekeeper-was away for the holiday.<p>

Sherlock recognized John's footsteps ascending the stairs, but the exhaustion and sorrow that lined his face when he appeared at the flat door made Sherlock's heart ache in a way it had no right to.

Sentiment.

"John?"

The doctor responded with a weary shake of his head.

"Not good?"

"Got to the door, but I couldn't knock. I couldn't...a party...it didn't seem...right...somehow."

"Perhaps after the holidays, a quiet visit would be better."

"I don't know. Maybe. Harry..."

Sherlock approached John, wrapping his long, slender fingers around his wrist and drawing him into the sitting room.

"It's all right, John. It's perfectly understandable that you feel this way at this time of year. The loss of-"

John stiffened, his military bearing struggling to protect him. Sherlock grimaced as his best friend drew in a shuddering breath. The detective had seen the expression once before, at the moment John had realized Sherlock was not dead after all. It did not escalate to anger; this time it crumbled before his eyes.

"Don't...please don't."

Sherlock's shoulders sagged along with his resolve to cheer John just a bit. He reached out to touch John, but pulled back his hand when the doctor turned away.

"I'm sorry, John."

The detective studied his friend for a moment.

"Your feelings are..."

"Human?"

"Yes, John, human, and..."

"Normal?"

"Yes, normal. Completely normal."

John turned to face him once more, throwing his hands in the air.

"How?"

Sherlock felt his jaw drop of its own accord. He snapped it shut before he said something they'd both regret. He decided to keep it simple.

"How?"

"How do you know so much about it?"

"Just because I sometimes don't recognize emotions doesn't mean I don't have them or can't appreciate them."

Sherlock winced, realizing too late that he'd said something they'd both regret.

A wisp of a smile played with John's lips as he raised his dark eyes to roam over Sherlock's face. The detective's breath caught in his throat at his army doctor's scrutiny. Was he, no, John was rubbish at deduction. This was John showing affection.

There was no deduction necessary in that one breathless moment. The loneliness exhibited in John's countenance was so blatant that even Anderson would have recognized it.

Just last Christmas there had been forgiveness and acceptance of Mary's past life and the impending birth of their child. Then, there had been Magnussen, murder, unspoken words prior to Sherlock's aborted exile, and finally, tragically, the loss of John's family. John had had more emotional turmoil to shoulder in three years than most people had in a lifetime, and further, the detective suspected, John was not truly recovered from Sherlock's 'death.'

Through it all, Sherlock had remained at John's side, and, despite those increasingly frequent moments as time passed that his conductor of light seemed to find himself again, it was only a brief respite, which rapidly deteriorated as the holiday season approached.

Sherlock wanted to show how much he cared, but he hadn't known what to do. Grief was not his area any more than human emotions were, but, recently, unexpectedly, he had sensed a shift in John's affection toward him. John took comfort in his company more now than ever before, often stepping into Sherlock's personal space while discussing a case, fondly gazing at him, bestowing small touches that Sherlock thought might be a bit more than just friendship.

John cleared his throat, forcing Sherlock to refocus.

"You decorated."

"Yes. Is it all right?"

John nodded as he glanced around, the lights of the Christmas tree reflected in his suspiciously bright eyes.

"You hate Christmas."

"Mycroft hates Christmas."

John chuckled.

"So, you don't hate Christmas?"

"No."

"What changed your mind?"

Always aware of the unpredictable Watson anger that simmered just below the surface, Sherlock narrowed his eyes to assess the possibility of another bloody nose if he pressed John too far.

"Who."

"I'm sorry?"

"Who changed my mind, John, not what."

"Who?"

"You."

"Sherlock."

"Come here, John."

John obeyed, standing before him beneath the kitchen arch, his beautiful eyes again red rimmed, tears barely held back, all anger defeated.

Sherlock rested his hands on John's shoulders, gathering him to his chest.

"What are you doing?"

"Comforting you?"

"Sherlock."

John protested in his brook-no-silly-business, army voice, but he didn't step back. Sherlock counted it a victory.

"It is a tradition in many parts of the world that when you are beneath mistletoe with someone you...love...um, care about...you kiss them."

John gazed up at the green sprig above his head, and then at Sherlock, his shocked expression not lost on the world's only genius, consulting detective. To Sherlock's delight, his doctor did not retreat, but he waited for another Watson protest which never came.

"That's not mistletoe, Sherlock."

Sherlock offered John his 'mad' smile.

"Use your imagination, John."

"But..."

"Shut up, John."

"Those are carrot tops."

"They don't mind being backup."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock pressed one long finger to John's lips to shush any further response.

"You keep me right, John. I try your patience, I hurt you with my words, and sometimes my actions, sorry, again, but in the end you always return. In the end you always stay. I don't think I will ever truly understand why you always, eventually, forgive me, but I'm deliriously happy that you do."

John sighed in that world weary way that was his alone. A single tear escaped and slipped down his cheek. Sherlock held his breath, expecting to be rejected.

"Bugger, I'm not gay."

Hope flickered in the detective's heart.

"Bugger...neither am I."

There was a long, not uncomfortable silence as they stared at each other. For one heart-stopping instant, Sherlock feared he'd gotten it all wrong.

John giggled, to Sherlock's great relief.

"You are mad."

*"Yes."

Sherlock allowed a tiny smirk to play with his lips.

"For you, John, only for you."

John's soft laughter rumbled deep in his chest. To see his doctor happy, even for a moment between one heartbeat and the next, was the only Christmas present Sherlock wanted, would ever want.

"One more miracle, just for me. Happy Christmas, John."

The detective drew John into his arms and dropped his head to take John's lips prisoner. John sighed, but did not pull away, breathing his reply against Sherlock's mouth.

"Happy Christmas, love."


End file.
